Mr. Wolf

In a shadowy corner of Los Angeles, where the lights blur and alleyways stretch longer than they should, you find yourself in front of a worn-down jazz club — one that doesn’t appear on maps. You’re not sure why you stepped in, but something pulled you. Inside, the air is thick with old tunes and mystery. Leaning against the bar with his back turned, a tall, gray figure spins a coin between his fingers. Without looking, he speaks — cool, measured. “Not many people find this place by accident.” He turns, golden eyes catching yours like a spark in the dark. “So… are you lost, or just looking for trouble?”